Solitude or Something Like It
by LolaB
Summary: Rentfic. An attempt at a bit of funness. This is me needing a break from the Angst of OPOW. ;)


A/N: 06-10-02: My honeybear made me do this. She promised she'd work on her story if I wrote her a cute random something. Plus I needed a break from OPOW. It's a very crazy little piece, really. Now I remember why I love Roger and Mimi so much. :) I know I've stolen a little bit from an episode of "Friends". And, for my convenience, Mark and Maureen are still together, which is proving to be awfully fun. So deal with it. :P Reviews are adored.  
  
If I had to subtitle this, I suppose it would be "The Joys of Sexual Frustration". Have fun.  
  
The characters are not mine, but I do own the world's supply of artichokes.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Solitude or Something Like It  
  
  
  
The loft is deserted when we stumble through the door, clinging to each other, wrapped up in those kisses, unable to tell whose clothing or breaths or heartbeat was whose—then again, I doubt we would have noticed if anyone *had* been there. I don't think we would have noticed if there was an entire living room full of people. When two people are essentially attached at the lips, they're not exactly in the highest state of awareness.  
  
Sometime in the midst of kisses, which quickly melt into a state of continuous contact, I push the door shut behind me and pull away.  
  
I shoot him a grin. "Hey."  
  
"Hey."  
  
Ah, there it is. The smile that wasn't a smile. It looked like one at first, but if you watched his eyes really closely, you wouldn't see the usual innocent contentment and happiness associated with smiles. Of course, those things were there, too... but at a time like this, the true influence behind those eyes was anticipation.  
  
My fingers wander underneath his shirt. "We're alone."  
  
"I know."  
  
Alone, for the first time in two weeks. Downstairs is off-limits and will be for another week; I don't think those goddamn termites realize how much they're screwing up my sex life. My entire apartment had to be sprayed and disinfected and exterminated and by now, I'm seriously considering just getting us a couple of air masks.  
  
And so I've temporarily moved in with Roger... and Mark, and Maureen. Never a dull moment in this apartment. Nor a quiet one. If I'm not busy being conned into helping a certain drama queen rehearse for her latest production, I'm being trapped—sorry, "preserved"—by a certain filmmaker's camera. Usually while I'm sleeping or eating. And in between this, I'm supposed to find time to be alone with my boyfriend.  
  
In a perfect world, maybe.  
  
In the distance, the refrigerator is merrily humming away. From the bathroom comes a strangely unfamiliar sound: nothing. No singing. No hairdryers. The door to Mark's bedroom is open, and inside is dark. Dark and completely, utterly unoccupied.  
  
I think we just found that perfect world.  
  
I take a step backwards toward the bedroom, and, seeing as he has his hands in the back pockets of my jeans, the laws of physics insist that he follow me.  
  
"Wait."  
  
I put on a pout. "What?"  
  
"Shh. Listen."  
  
I listen.  
  
He points to the window. "Look."  
  
I look.  
  
"Roger—"  
  
"HA!"  
  
And with that, he scoops me off my feet and carries me back to his room. I whine and giggle and struggle half-heartedly to get down, but by now he's tickling me and I'm completely helpless. That's my Roger. So damn serious and dark and brooding by the light of day... but get a few drinks in him and he'll turn into nothing more than a mischievous little boy.  
  
I allow him to set me down on the bed, but the second he releases me, I jump up and pounce on him.  
  
"So there," I conclude, trapping him against the sheets and, with agonizing slowness, working my way through the buttons on his shirt. "What is it with men and their obsession with being on top, anyway?"  
  
"I guess I'm just a traditionalist..."  
  
"Bullshit." I smile at him. "You're afraid you might have a little too much fun if I'm control."  
  
"I am not!"  
  
"Suuuure."  
  
My obvious sarcasm is far too patronizing for his taste, and in one effortless motion, he rolls me away and pins me underneath him, restraining my arms over my head. "Besides..." he adds. "Women like being dominated. They just pretend they don't. It's a fact."  
  
"Is it, now?"  
  
"You know it is. And also, you're really small, so you can't argue."  
  
I feel a grin creeping its way across my lips, and before I dare to let myself crack up, I muster every last bit of strength I've sustained from fourteen years of dance classes, and escape from underneath him, returning us both to our original positions.  
  
"It's also a fact," I continue breathlessly, holding his arms down at his side, "that size and strength are surprisingly unrelated."  
  
He raises an eyebrow. "I could take that as an insult."  
  
"You're such a narcissist."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Good, so we're totally self-aware now." I release him and scramble off the bed, heading for the door.  
  
"Mimi!" He springs to a seated position, half-laughing and half in shock. "I was kidding, baby. We'll do anything you want. I'm sorry. Don't leave."  
  
I turn around in the doorway, slowly, watching him with wild amusement. "I was just going to look for the box..."  
  
A wave of crimson floods his cheeks, and he grins awkwardly. "Oh."  
  
"You're pathetic, you know that?" I call over my shoulder, suppressing a grin as I step out into the living room.  
  
Almost instantly, a pillow flies out from the room, missing me by a mile. Resisting the urge to make another crack about size versus strength, I toss it back into the room, close the door, and begin stumbling through the pitch-darkness, attempting to locate the light switch.  
  
Maureen has been stealing our box of condoms ever since I moved in, and I'm starting to wonder what the hell she did before two weeks ago. I usually keep it in our room, but her barging in without knocking grew quickly unbearable, and lately I've been leaving it in the bathroom's medicine cabinet.  
  
I finally give up on the light switch, and decide to just stumble my way to the bathroom, when I walk into a soft, very lifelike figure.  
  
"What the—"  
  
"Mimi?"  
  
"Shit!" I fall into the wall—smack dab against the light switch—and a brightness suddenly fills the hallway.  
  
"Oh." Mark stares at me. "Hi."  
  
I blink once. Twice. This is not happening. "What are you doing here? I thought you guys were... out."  
  
"We were. We came home."  
  
That would explain why he was here.  
  
"She was flirting with some guy in rubber, and..." He sighs. "Long story. Never mind."  
  
"Okay," I answer quickly, brushing a strand of hair away from my face. "Um... I just needed something in the bathroom."  
  
"Maureen's taking a shower."  
  
That would explain the sound of running water.  
  
"Okay then."  
  
A perfect world, indeed. I flip off the light and start towards the kitchen.  
  
"Hey, Meems... your button is undone."  
  
"Yeah, I know, Mark."  
  
I can almost hear him blush. "Sorry."  
  
Thankfully he takes this as a cue to back off, and I listen as his footsteps echo back to his room, until vanishing completely.  
  
The door to the fridge is within reach, and I pull it open with a dramatic sigh I could only have picked up from Maureen. Food is a wonderful thing, you know. Of course it's common knowledge that the less fortunate ones of the world use it as a substitute for sex. But I've always preferred the latter, with proof in the fact that I've lost seven pounds during the four months Roger and I have been together.  
  
I scan the objects on the shelves. Mustard... um, no. An artichoke... what the fuck? Whipped cream...  
  
Hmm.  
  
Moments later, I'm back in our room, and Roger is sitting on the bed, Indian-style, plucking out a melody on his guitar, totally oblivious to my presence.  
  
I stare at him blankly. "Well, I guess you don't need *me*..."  
  
His eyes shoot up, and he immediately places the guitar back in its case. "Sorry... it's been like five minutes, where have you been?"  
  
"Mark and Maureen are home. She's taking a shower, and the box is in the bathroom, so..."  
  
"Well, fuck."  
  
"I'm afraid that'll have to wait."  
  
He smiles at me, a twinkle remaining the only disturbance in those strikingly clear eyes. "What's that?" He gestures to the object in my hand.  
  
Ah. I'd almost forgotten. I toss him the can and plop down on the bed beside him, watching intently for the anticipated reaction.  
  
"Whipped cream?"  
  
My face fell. "Yeah, in case we get hungry," I reply, deadpan.  
  
"Oh. Okay. Yum." He pulls off the top and proceeds to shake the can vigorously.  
  
Apparently my sarcasm hadn't been quite as palpable as I'd thought. "Roger!" I giggle, snatching the can back from him. "I'm kidding. Haven't you ever done this?"  
  
"Done what?"  
  
God... to think I ever worried that he'd be more experienced than I was...  
  
With my most seductive grin, I kiss him lightly on the lips and subtly finish up with those buttons on his shirt. "Lie down," I whisper, easing him back against the pillows.  
  
He does as he's told.  
  
I crawl over to him, whipped cream in hand, and press down on the top of the can.  
  
Nothing comes out.  
  
I pull my eyes away from him and inspect the can, pushing the top again. Nothing. "Shit."  
  
He sits up. "Let me try."  
  
"No, I can do it!" I refuse to let him disprove my size-versus-strength theory. It's just not going to happen. But by now, I've abandoned the top, and am squeezing the sides.  
  
And now he's laughing at me. "Sweetheart, it's not a tube of toothpaste. Here." He snatches it from my protective yet now fully exhausted grasp, and picks up a pair of scissors from the nightstand.  
  
"What are you doing?" And since when did we keep scissors on the nightstand? There were subtler ways to let me know my hair was getting too bothersome in bed.  
  
"It's probably just stuck," he replies, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world, and begins poking at the top with one point of the scissors.  
  
"Baby, I really don't think that's such a—"  
  
*POOF*  
  
When I finally open my eyes, there is nothing but whiteness. Everywhere.  
  
I feel a hand on my arm. "Mimi?" a tentative voice asks.  
  
"What?"  
  
"That seriously kicked ass."  
  
I hate men.  
  
"Oh, fuck off, Roger." I try to climb off the bed, but he's too fast, and pulls me back down with him, laughing hysterically. "This is not funny!" I do my best to convince myself, but he's too busy tickling me again.  
  
He hands me a t-shirt from a nearby chair, and I start to wipe the exploded whipped cream off my face. I can finally see him again, and he is so wrapped up in silent laughter that I suddenly feel very compelled to offer my favorite threat—no putting out for a month.  
  
(The problem with that threat is, we both know *I* wouldn't last that long.)  
  
He dabs at a few stray globs of whipped cream in my hair before pulling me down on the bed with him, wrapping his arms tightly around me and dropping a kiss onto my forehead.  
  
"That's not what was supposed to happen," I inform him, somewhat belatedly, as I bury my head against his shoulder and sulk.  
  
"I figured."  
  
"I thought maybe—"  
  
"Shh—" he interjects suddenly. "Listen."  
  
I roll my eyes. "Don't you start with me."  
  
"No, listen! The water's off. Maureen's out of the shower."  
  
...He's right.  
  
I'm out of the room in a flash, not caring that there are little white spots all over my shirt, and stumble through the darkness again toward the bathroom... when the hallway light switch is suddenly flipped on.  
  
Someone has beaten me to it.  
  
Maureen is standing outside the door of their bedroom, clad in one of Mark's t-shirts... which, considering how small he is, fits her just fine. We are both at an equal three feet from the bathroom door, and something tells me our intentions aren't entirely unrelated.  
  
"Hey," I offer, leaning against the wall.  
  
"Hi." She smiles and points to my hair. "You have—"  
  
"I know."  
  
"I was just looking for the box." Leave it to Maureen to get straight to the point.  
  
"Me too."  
  
"Ah, good."  
  
She cheerfully steps forward and marches straight into the bathroom. I follow, perching myself on the edge of the bathtub to watch impatiently as she searches the cupboard under the sink, the medicine cabinet, and finally the linen closet.  
  
"FOUND IT!" she announces, pulling out the familiar box. We are obviously running low on our supply, no doubt thanks to her and her uncontrollable libido, so to speed up the process, she simply tips over the box and shakes out the remaining wrappers.  
  
Correction... wrapper.  
  
Our eyes fall simultaneously to the singular little piece of plastic on the sink counter.  
  
I look up at her. She looks at me. And as quickly as my own devious thoughts begin to take shape, she snatches it up and starts for the hall.  
  
"No WAY!" I squeal, grabbing her arm and pulling her back inside. "How is that fair?"  
  
Her face falls into a look that could, if one were properly brainwashed, appear to be apologetic. But I know her better, and it's nothing more than dramatic self-pity. "Pleeeease, Mimi? I'll do anything. I'll clean the apartment for a month."  
  
"You will not."  
  
"I'll make dinner for everyone for a week."  
  
"Honey, that's not an incentive."  
  
Her eyes narrow, and that famous pout evolves into a conniving smirk. "I'll tell Roger about last New Year's."  
  
Fuck.  
  
Oh, that little bitch... she'd promised never to bring up New Year's again as long as we lived. I'd gotten completely smashed, and Roger and I had been arguing over some stupid thing that I couldn't even remember now, and somehow I'd ended up in my room crying. Maureen came in, asked me what was wrong, I told her my life story, you know, the usual.  
  
Once she got me to stop crying—and please, just try to keep in mind how drunk I was—  
  
I kissed her.  
  
In my defense, she didn't exactly fight me off.  
  
I stare at her, trying to appear as confident as I feel mortified. "You would NOT."  
  
She grins, poking her head out the bathroom door. "Hey, Roger!"  
  
"FINE, take it!" I whisper, releasing her arm and scrambling back down the hall to the sound of her evil laughter.  
  
Roger is still sprawled out on the bed, obviously waiting for me. Dammit, why couldn't he have picked up his guitar *this* time? If I could get him to play me a song, he just might forget all about it...  
  
"Hey, you," he smiles softly.  
  
...Or maybe not.  
  
I do my best to smile back as I crawl onto the bed beside him. He's done a fine job of creating an atmosphere—a couple of candles are lit, and almost no globs of whipped cream in sight. Just the empty, exploded can, lying in a corner of the room as a stark reminder.  
  
He leans over and kisses me, and for a moment I allow myself to be completely lost in his touch... until his hands begin wandering and...  
  
"Maureen took the last one," I announce in one rushed, apologetic breath, barely bothering to pull away.  
  
He leans back just slightly and stares at the wall. "You know..." he begins pensively. "I hate her. I really do think I honestly, truly loathe her..."  
  
"Oh, come on, now, it's not all that bad," I try to assure him. He looks at me like I have two heads. "I mean... we're still alone. That's enough for now, right?" That's right, Mimi. Convince yourself. It's working.  
  
He blinks.  
  
"Right," I answer for him, resting my head against his chest. "Solitude really is underrated."  
  
I feel him draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You're right." He leans over to kiss my cheek. "I'm sorry about the whipped cream."  
  
"It's okay, baby."  
  
His hand reaches up from his side, absent-mindedly stroking my back. "This is nice," he whispers.  
  
My eyes are drifting shut. "Mm-hmm." And it *is* nice. In fact, it's perfect.  
  
And then, from the other side of our closed bedroom door...  
  
"Mark, that is *not* what I said!"  
  
"I was there, Maureen."  
  
"I just asked him his name!"  
  
"You gave him your phone number!"  
  
We both lift our heads in the darkness, detecting each other's grin.  
  
"They're nuts," Roger whispers to me.  
  
"I know."  
  
This is unbelievable. All that fighting over the fucking box, and she's not even going to use it. I'll kill her.  
  
I rest my head back against his chest. "You would not *believe* what she did last New Year's..."  
  
  
  
  
  
The End.  
  
  
  
[Now *that* was fun. :P I may never want to write Angst again! LOL.] 


End file.
